


the world is but a canvas to the imagination

by Blowing_minds



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, and are just.... hit in the face with this bullshit, no beta we die like men, tfw when youre going thru some old writing, wow i have no idea where this came from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:15:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21584395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blowing_minds/pseuds/Blowing_minds
Summary: The world is a canvas, and you are the painter. But what happens when you lose your most critical tool: imagination?OR: An ode to how writing evolves as we grow up, and why it is important to remember that we are more than the mold society will try to fit us in.
Kudos: 2





	the world is but a canvas to the imagination

**Author's Note:**

> i was going through some of my old unfinished writing and i found this?? i have literally no idea where it came from but i actually kinda like it so... here we are.
> 
> im pretty sure this piece is inspired by a quote found on pinterest: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/445997169342567007/
> 
> anyhow, enjoy!
> 
> (also WOW this summary is trash but like. how on earth do you summarize this???)
> 
> (also i think my verb tenses are all over the place. just ignore it.)

When I was a child, I wrote in colour. Big block letters scrawled in crayon, often accentuated with a hasty picture. Spelling mistakes were common, and the phrasing was simple. I wasn’t a prodigy. I wasn’t a genius. I was a deer taking its first steps; a child learning how to write. It wasn’t supposed to be pretty.

When I was a teenager, I wrote messily. My calligraphy was terrible, letters disproportionate, and no one but me could read them. I was scolded for it. I didn’t mind. My letters might not be pretty, but they painted a beautiful picture; one filled with dragons soaring through the sky, witches casting magic spells, princesses rescuing themselves. I wrote of made-up world of my own creation, brought to life by my words. I wrote like I dreamed. Non-stop and full of wonder. And others saw that, too. I was hailed a prodigy, given both wanted and unwanted attention. At the time, I was happy. What teenager wouldn’t be? I was finally making my mark on the world, doing what I loved. I was unstoppable.

When I was an adult, I wrote rigidly. There were no more dragons, and instead formulas and rubrics took root into my brain. It took me hours to write what I used to write in minutes. My words were cold, unyielding. My calligraphy was beautiful, full of graceful swoops and elegant curves. People now gawked at me when I wrote, instead of scolding me over how messy it was. I was no longer the only one who could read my handwriting, and that made me a bit sad. I was a renowned genius, praised in the writing world, and plenty of young authors looked up to me. But I wasn’t happy, not anymore. Not when my once eloquent phrasing were dull and lifeless, stringed together by the grace of a rubric instead of my heart. Not when all imagination had left me, scared away by a life with no breathing room. My mind is no longer a place of wonder and life. It’s now a robot. Finely crafted, but will never do anything but follow orders. It’s a curse. It’s my doom.

When I was old and white-haired, I didn’t write. I didn’t think there was much of a point. My fingers cramped whenever I held a pencil. My eyes watered if I looked at a page too long. Instead, I dreamed, just like I used to. But this time, it’s not of imaginative worlds, but of places and people that are real. Places where I had traveled, in a fruitless pursuit of knowledge, places that I had dismissed easily when I learned I could uncover their secrets by looking them up on the internet. Whenever I dreamed, I was someplace knew, with a new wonder to unravel. Each new dream was like a breath of fresh air in my stone lungs. Sometimes, aspiring authors would knock on my weathered door. They’d look at me with the bright-eyes I once wore and ask me, a writing legend, for advice. Each time, I would tell them this:

“Forget what school has taught. Forget about how you should never put this word in front of that one, about how this piece of writing is useless because it’s not written by Shakespeare. Forget it all. Thinking like that puts you in a box inscribed with rules and order, “do”s and “don’t”s.” Replace these teachings with passion. Write with emotion, with imagination. Put a piece of yourself in everything you write, no matter how small. Don’t write in monotone, write with colour. Write with your voice; that’s what makes it interesting. That’s what makes _you_ interesting. Anyone can write, but few do it with passion.”

Some listen. Others don’t. I did not mind. When I lay on my deathbed, my legacy spread out around me on hundreds of pages, I looked up and smiled, watching a dragon swoop through the clouds. 

Finally. I had found my imagination once again.

**Author's Note:**

> thx for reading. and remember, kids: don't do rubrics.


End file.
